


split statues

by dreadfulbeauties



Category: Faust - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Genre: Multi, Non-Explicit Sex, Possessive Behavior, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:48:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27789997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadfulbeauties/pseuds/dreadfulbeauties
Summary: Mephistopheles loves him. And it is a cruel love he feels. Because Faust is his - his in life, and his in death.
Relationships: Faust/Mephistopheles, Heinrich Faust/Gretchen (Faust - Goethe), Heinrich Faust/Helena (Faust - Goethe), Heinrich Faust/Mephistopheles (Faust - Goethe)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	split statues

The idea that no one wicked can feel love is a lie.

Mephistopheles is familiar with this lie. He has heard it during his travels on Earth in the guise of a human, uttered with a knowing little smile. He has heard it from Faust himself — surprising, considering that Faust is a doctor and as close to godliness as he can get without forsaking his dear God. He has studied the stars and medicine, knows how to best cure ailments and bandage splintered bone in bandages. How can someone like him believe an idea as foolish as “the wicked cannot love?”

The “good”, Mephistopheles believes, get drunk upon this falsehood. They would do plenty of foolish, truly depraved things in the name of love. Love is not just tenderness and hand-holding. Love is in a slap hard enough to leave a heavy bruise painted across skin, in wrist veins pulsing beneath fingers forcing them down, in the sticky, half-dried blood coating a dagger. People will commit unspeakable acts all for love. Mephistopheles knows.

He’s committed some of those acts in the past for others before. And he will do the same for Faust.

He knows he loves him, though. But he must keep this love to himself, lest Faust decide to step into the skin of a hypocrite and pray with hands clasped together to a God he claimed he would turn away from because of his confession.

His actions are subtle. He never lays a hand upon Faust, though he lets his gaze linger upon him for a little longer than he would like to. He likes looking from Faust. Best of all, he can see that flicker of red in those placid, dark brown eyes of his — that’s his handiwork, Mephistopheles thinks in pride. That’s him.

“That Margaret girl is really something, isn’t she? Such an innocent, sweet dear. Beautiful, too.” Mephistopheles will admit that. It’s rare that he encounters a girl with hair as bright red as hers, seafoam-colored eyes set determined and large against that delicate, round-cheeked face.

Faust looks back down to the streets greasy with rain where he’d encountered Margaret — or “Gretchen”, as she is nicknamed. “She is, indeed. I’d like her for myself.”

“She’s not a toy, you know. And she’s rather young — perhaps a little too young for you.”

Faust looks back at him, raising an eyebrow. His expression grows sullen. “And who else would you suggest for me to pursue? You? You’re my benefactor, Mephistopheles. It would be unheard of.”

Mephistopheles laughs. The taste of irony lingers on his tongue, so sickeningly sweet it rots into sourness. “Oh no, you mistake me, Herr Doctor. I’d _never_ suggest something as outrageous as that in seriousness. Like you said, I’m only your benefactor.”

“You could help me… win her over, of course. It fits into the pact.”

The words are civil, but Mephistopheles knows what Faust really wants. He wants to claim Gretchen, to have her for him to keep. That is the evil of love Mephistopheles has witnessed. It’s a bad seed that festers inside for a time, then morphs into a wicked weed that steals away the sunlight and water. For an unfortunate many, love makes them only want to take and take and take. They want obedience, a person who can match the painting of them they have conjured up in their mind. They want a complacent doll who blindly worships them as a devoted might worship an idol or a god.

(Mephistopheles worships Faust from afar. He’s all too familiar with these hypocrisies. If only Faust could idly follow him like the dog he’d once disguised himself as, too.)

“Of course I could. And will.”

“Good. You’ll make sure she comes to love me quickly, won’t you?”

He feels no jealousy or ill will towards Gretchen. Only a slight twinge of pity. Poor lonely little girl with her father dead and brother away at war, who comes home to an empty house with a dull mother and who might soon enough feel even emptier thanks to their meddling.

“Indeed I wil, Herr Doctor.”

In a matter of a few days he has Martha holding onto his arm. She’s Gretchen’s neighbor, a self-described worrywart with hair so blonde it nearly fades to white. She is far from idle on their outing with Faust and Gretchen — in fact, Mephistopheles finds himself clinging onto her every word. Martha may have acquired scraps of knowledge that would make more complete sense at a university like the one Faust attended, but her tongue is sharper than steel.

“I hope you’re aware of the fact that I’m _very_ taken with you, Martha.”

She gazes at him with round, heavy-lidded blue eyes. “Well, you aren’t particularly subtle about it. Granted, I’m more surprised at the fact, but flattered all the same.”

“You’re quite a sharp sort. I fear I might hurt you with my own lack of cunning.”

“Hurt me?” She cackles lightly. “No, you delight me. And your friendship with that Doctor Faust fellow makes it clear enough to me that we’re an equal match.”

“You and I, at least. It’s a bit different with Doctor Faust.”

“I can only imagine so!”

He likes Martha. He won’t deny it. But she is no Faust. Neither of them — Faust or Marth — are nearly as wide-eyed and giggly as Gretchen is — he watches her from afar, round little mouth widening open as Faust whispers something into her ear before she throws herself upon him and dissolves into a stream of laughter — they are aware that Mephistopheles is not to be trusted. But Faust… Faust is drawn to him whether he likes it or not. Martha hasn’t let Mephistopheles catch hold of her.

_Not yet. Or rather: She won’t._

“I’d be glad to have you stay for dinner,” he says.

“No, I’ve got more pressing matters to attend to. I really do enjoy your company, but I’ve got to keep my priorities sorted out.”

Martha does not know that he is the Devil. Far from being Faust’s servant as proclaimed by the doctor himself, he is the one with the strings tied around his finger jerking his dearest along on puppet strings. But Martha pulls back. She may not know he is the Devil, but she knows that what resides in his heart does not line up with what may be written on his face.

He looks back at Gretchen, curls of red hair springing free from the neo-Grecian style twisted atop her head, patting at the flowers Faust plucks from the garden to set in her hair. Her smile shimmers, a mirage. He doesn’t want to hold Faust with that same gentleness. No, he wants to break him. But he can’t help but feel pity for the girl. She’s a fish, he decides, swimming about aimlessly in a lake till a hook drops down. She’s desperate for something else and latches onto it, unaware of her blood leaking red into the water.

_I have a bet to keep. She’s just a part of it._

“Doctor Faust seems to be enjoying himself,” he remarks. “And Gretchen seems to be getting along with him well, too.”

“That seems like a bit of an understatement to me.”

He knows it’s temporary. He’s seen it all the time before, witnessed it and sighed because he knows what’s coming: Some young and music-sweet girl will be taken with a man too old for her, then he’ll drain her dry and mourn her because he deluded himself into thinking it to be love. But in the brief time where they are almost equals, the girl will be the most lively creature to have ever breathed. Sometimes they try and patch up the passion they began their relationship with through marriage, but it’s always loveless and dreary because the years between the two of them are so far apart.

Poor, poor Gretchen, Mephistopheles thinks to himself. It really _is_ pity he feels, even if he knew Faust would for one brief moment have the upper hand.

It isn’t his fault that he got the three witches, with their stringy graying hair and eyes bulging doll-like and wide from their sockets, to brew the “sleeping” potion for Gretchen’s mother. She’s a work-weary woman, oxen hazel eyes rimmed pink a reminder of the fatigue she feels. It must have been nice for her to slip into sleep for much longer once dear little Gretchen mixed the draught into her tea like she’d been instructed to. It isn’t his fault that he’d been quietly goading Faust so that he joins Gretchen for the tryst of theirs this night. His doctor looks eerie and pretty with the way the moonlight illuminates him from the outline of his hair to his skin. It isn’t his fault that Faust lets himself be whisked away soon after for Walpurgisnacht, to ease his mind from the bittenress of consequences.

No. These are all Faust’s decisions. Not his. He’s only Faust’s obedient servant, after all, here to give him his unholiest of desires.

He does feel pity for the girl. Maybe if she was more of a sinner and he more of a saint, they could have been something akin to friends. But poor Gretchen wasn’t handled for the life blooming within her following her meeting with Faust, nor everyone in town pointing fingers and declaring her a conniving little slut — her own brother among them, and he dies at Faust’s hands with far worse names for Gretchen trapped beneath his tongue and teeth. While one night passes on Walpurgisnacht, nine months pass for Gretchen. Nine months without her beloved Faust at her side — she’s not fit to be a mother since she never thought nor wanted to be one. 

So when she stares down at that sobbing, wriggling bundle after giving birth she cuts its life short by leaving it for dead in the river.

Mephistopheles isn’t surprised in the slightest when they visit her in prison. She is changed between their first meeting and now, about to be beheaded without having even reached nineteen. Her red hair is dull, hanging stringy around her sunken face. Those once strikingly large green eyes of her are dull, she is clothed in the rags of a prisoner. Tomorrow the townspeople will hear the cracking of metal as it splinters between muscle and bone and her head topples off.

“Gretchen, my love,” Faust says, but he surely does not mean it for the ‘love’ he had has long since dried up, “We can escape. I can help you out of here.”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“What are you talking about? You don’t want to be killed, do you—”

“I _can’t_. Leave me be to die.”

“Gretchen, please—”

“Just let me die, you were the one who picked apart my life.”

Her voice isn’t sharp with anger. She sounds as dull as she looks. Here is a girl who had her life stolen away from her, who didn’t turn away from God long enough to be convinced that she could live happily as a sinner. Mephistopheles’ heart does sting with sadness, but he’s seen the pattern before. She’ll be far happier in Heaven than she would be with Faust. More importantly, it’s no loss for Faust, who he will have to himself for a time.

They leave that sordid wreck of a prison with its wet mildewy walls, but not long enough for that voice from the Heavens to declare that Gretchen is saved to go unheard. Faust is angry — he knows by the way his face scrunches up, a telltale sign he’s memorized — but says nothing to Mephistopheles. What can he say now at least? The both of them know he’s the reason Gretchen will be dead and gone. 

Faust turns his head away when he hears the sickening crack of metal slicing through skin and bone.

The walk home is silent. The birds chirp merrily, the sun shines in brassy gold upon the town. As if a young girl _hadn’t_ been executed for a crime she didn’t deserve to face punishment for. Faust has blood on his hands, red and half-dried, clinging beneath his fingernails and stuck in the creases of his knuckles. This pleases Mephistopheles — his beloved can scrub away at the stains as much as he want but they will remain, they will remain, and they will be a reminder of his handiwork and what he seeks to achieve. He shoves his hands into the pocket of his coat as they walk, footsteps loud through the quiet streets. 

It is only in the privacy of Faust’s quarters that his dear doctor at last speaks.

“I hate you.”

Mephistopheles feels nothing but joy. “Pardon?”

“I hate you,” Faust says, “Because you’re a _liar_.”

He stares at Mephistopheles with the depth of something near fathomless. Were he human he would think him horrifying to gaze upon: Cold, bitter, full of contempt. But Mephistopheles knows his master (or rather, servant, Faust was never in control and never will be no matter how much he thinks he is) is afraid. Why wouldn’t he be? This is the Devil he is daring to confront. He is alone with his secrets laid bare in this darkened study of his — really and truly alone.

He takes care to keep his tone as cool and unruffled as he can, even though he wants to whoop with delight. “What makes you think I lied to you, Herr Doctor?”

There’s silence, Faust glaring at him with teeth clenched and fists curled. Then:

“Walpurgisnacht. You knew what you were doing. You said it would only be for a night. When I came back the love I had was ruined. Now Gretchen’s dead because of you.”

“The girl?” _Poor thing. She couldn’t help being the victim of circumstance. I’d take pity on her and let her into Hell, but it seems as though I wasn’t quick enough for that nor she wicked enough._

“You ruined what I had even though you promised to give it to me.”

“Did I? I think you misunderstand things, Herr Doctor. While a night in that other realm may be nine months here, it is still a night by name in the end. I didn’t lie to you, you simply didn’t understand my truth and didn’t ask for it, anyways.”

“You tricked me, though. You _knew_ that what went on would take a turn for the worse in those nine months. You are here to serve me and deliver me all that I need and desire, and you tricked me. I am the one supposed to be commanding you and the fact that you still went on to try and pull the strings is unbelievable.”

“Now, Faust, I think you don’t realize I was only trying to give you respite. It was clear enough to me that you were distressed after the events of that fateful day—”

Faust grips him tight by the collar and slams him into the wall. Mephistopheles’ wings flutter helplessly trapped between the hard surface and his back, eyes blinking down at Faust. He watches a fleeting smile settle on Faust’s face, triumphant at his momentary falter. Mephistopheles will allow him this moment, he will allow his toy a split second to think that he’s gotten his revenge.

“Some help _you_ are.” Sharp-smelling spit sprays against his face. “Tricking me and lying to me, the reason Gretchen — I loved her, you knew I did, I wanted for her more than I had for anything in my life before then — got her head chopped off and she’s lying dead in the ground.”

“And what do you intend to do about it, Herr Doctor? Dead is dead.”

“If I cannot have Gretchen’s heart, I will have your body.”

He tugs painfully down on that heavy red-gold hair, tipping Mephistopheles’ head forward so that his lips bump against his. Faust is insistent that he be the one to take the reins, to go forth — it’s a pathetic thing to witness, really. Because Faust knows he is human, that there is only so much he really is in control of. Eventually the mechanics of his body shall wear down while Mephistopheles keeps him to himself after the fact. 

Mephistopheles will help by letting Faust know that he’s lying to himself.

“I’m not quite your servant, Herr Doctor. I think you’re forgetting who presented these opportunities to you to begin with.”

“You pledged yourself to me, said you would do what you could to serve me—”

“And I will be the one to drag you down with me when it all comes crashing down.”

Faust’s expression changes. He is not the servant that his dear doctor thought he pledged himself to be. His ambition is to make sure that Faust is looking back at himself in the mirror — every step he takes further down sends Mephistopheles’ heart (or perhaps what remains of it, at least, for surely a demon cannot truly have a heart) aflutter. One day Faust will trip down the stairs and snap his neck, and at the end of the stairway Mephistopheles will be waiting for him. The fear that lights up Faust’s eyes is enchanting.

“Mephisto—”

“This was never your bargain to present. It was mine. Surely you remember. I was the one who approached you in the guise of a simple dog, offering you joys that no heavenly or earthly source could bring you. And you pledged me your soul. I have granted you wishes, but remember at the end of the day — and at the end of your short, short life — you are mine. You are mine.”

Here again is the wickedness of love that he has witnessed, and Mephistopheles relishes in experiencing it.

“I am yours,” Faust echoes.

_Yes, you are, you are. My wonderful, terrible dear doctor._

He says those words with wonder and terror, just how Mephistopheles would like to hear them.

“If, though,” Faust pulls away, anger still present but not twisting his face up as much as just a few moments ago, “I am yours… how come you don’t do more to remind me of it beyond your words?”

“Hmm?”

“Hasn’t the thought of eliminating Gretchen or any of the others popped into your head? Wagner, even?”

A smile curls against his lips. “No. I felt nothing but sorrow for the girl after she got dragged into your plight. And Wagner means nothing to me.”

“Then—”

“Know, Doctor, that while I may seethe with rage if anyone that is not me dares to touch you… I won’t act on that rage. Because at the very end I will see you again. You are mine for the keeping, even if you don’t think it — though I am Lucifer, cast out of Heaven for his sins and defiance, I don’t entirely live up to my name. I am not so cruel as to keep you on such a present leash and chain. That isn’t what you contracted me for, after all.”

Faust pulls him down onto the bed, his back hitting the plush mattress. Short, dark hair fans out across rumpled blankets, deep brown eyes glaring back at Mephistopheles’ red.

“I never said you had to kill anyone to prove it,” he says softly. “I never said you had to do anything at all?”

“Would you like to have me as much as I want to have you, though? Even though you hate me — you do hate me, don’t you?”

“More than you will ever know. Were I strong enough or you weak enough, I would reach my hands up to snap that neck of yours in half.”

_This is my reward, this is what I have and will have for an eternity. And I am overjoyed to have it._

“There must be something more that you want.” He is deliberate when he leans down even closer towards Faust, rounding his lips into a small circle and exhaling hotly against the strip of exposed throat peeking just above that high, white collar of his shirt.

“…I want you to make me forget.”

“Forget?”

“Forget about Gretchen. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? To ensure that at least before I go to Hell, I am given all I desire? All that will bring me happiness?” Faust snaps. “And of course, it’ll be a reminder that I’m yours, won’t it?”

“That is a truth.” _A rare one. But for you, Herr Doctor, I will give you the truth._

“Then prove it. Prove to me that I’m yours to keep. Do as you wish with me so that it is your name that gets past my lips and not Gretchen’s.”

“If that is what you wish for…”

It’s a funny thing, really, Mephistopheles thinks as he claims those sweet, imperfect lips (so cracked and dry, yet still so sumptuous when he slips his forked tongue into his mouth). Faust really _is_ his. His to keep, his to break, his to make feel. So he gives Faust that. He leaves heavy scratch marks on his back, watching his claws trace thin, jagged lines of fresh red on him, he uses Faust’s body for himself. Because that’s what Faust tells him — enchanting as music, the faint yellow-white of the fading sun on his skin — that he wants. 

“Remember when all is said and done, you are mine.” Mephistopheles pulls his mouth away from Faust’s neck, admiring the patchy red of a fresh bite mark that clings to his skin to speak. They are near finished.

“Say it,” he requests. Commands. So Faust obeys.

“I am yours,” he says.

It is done. Mephistopheles makes his exit.

The idea that no one wicked can feel love is a lie. Because all Mephistopheles feels in his heart for his beloved doctor is love. 

If anything, he thinks that love is the most wicked emotion one can feel at all.

**Author's Note:**

> would mephistopheles qualify as an emotional sadomasochist? maybe :]
> 
> i am, if we're gonna be honest, VERY happy with how this first part at least is turning out. also, yes. mephistopheles in this one was, uhhh [awkward hand gestures] sticking the breadstick in the olive oil, if you will. because for some reason there's not enough fic of him... doing that. so there you go.
> 
> moving on! there will be a part 2, focusing on helena. of faust's romantic relationships that aren't really subtext, i'd probably say faust/helena is my favorite. gretchen does most definitely deserve better, though.
> 
> thank you for reading. comments are appreciated <3


End file.
